Paint by Numbers
by feathers and ash
Summary: She talks, and she talks, and she talks, and he has no idea whether she is trying to fill his silences or her own or if she's trying to light up the whole of Hueco Mundo so she can finally stop jumping at shadows. Ulquihime.


She talks, and she talks, and she _talks_, and he has no idea whether she is trying to fill his silences or her own or if she's trying to light up the whole of Hueco Mundo so she can finally stop jumping at shadows.

He does not care which it is.

(_Either you are forgetting your new role in life, or you are sorely confused about what precisely Aizen-sama's desires_ are. _Perhaps the Sexta has mistakenly given you the impression that he truly likes to be surrounded by noise_.)

He does not care about the words or the meanings behind them. He'd prefer it if they stopped, but really, it is inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. It is nothing to tune them out, and he is content to do what Aizen-sama commands of him. If that means enduring an onslaught of verbal diarrhea that is quite possibly quicker than any cero, so be it.

But every so often, there is something he _can't_ shut out, and his shoulders stiffen just the slightest bit in what could almost be surprise.

"You know, I drew myself as a robot once, and I really kind of looked like you!"

_Ignore it, and perhaps it will go away_. His lips remain in their constant taut line, and he doesn't so much as move again, only waits. Her voice is like an ocean, rising and falling in an unending rhythm, but even the waves break.

--but it will not be now, and gravity keeps the words tumbling.

"I really did!" she insists, and he can hear her moving, padding towards him on small fearless feet. Before he can stop her, she is before him and trying valiantly to smile, lips quivering and eyes dull. But still, she laces excitement into her voice, and he forces himself to listen.

"It was for school," she explains, nodding to herself as though she expects the concept to have any meaning for him. "They told us to draw how we see ourselves in the future, and I was so excited! Tatsuki-chan, she drew herself as the ultimate fighting champion, and I bet it'll really happen, too! Tatsuki-chan is amazing, but I'm not tough like she is. I would've liked our futures to match, but I knew they couldn't, and so I drew myself as a robot instead!"

It's just as well he has no desire to converse with her anyway; he can't even begin to imagine what a proper response to that would possibly _be_.

And she doesn't wait for one.

"I thought, if I was turned into a robot someday, maybe I could follow Tatsuki around and be her sidekick! I'd be strong then too, and I know she'd still love me even if I wasn't human, so it wouldn't matter that I was made out of metal! We'd be together, and everything would be okay, and I could protect her and Kurosaki-kun with missiles launched from my boobs!"

(He is suddenly grateful that she has not yet conversed with Halibel, and makes a mental note not to let her do so any time in the future.)

"It would have been amazing," she sighs, and she sounds so idiotically wistful that he almost wants to reach out a finger and flick her hairpins. Aizen-sama considers her to be strong enough; why isn't she content with that?

He is also still unsure what any of this story has to do with him, but he's not going to ask any more than he is going to dare touch the source of her powers, her value to the cause.

She suddenly wrenches her face into a strange broken-around-the-edges smile and tells him anyway.

"I really did look like you, though!" Her tone, he notes, seems to be an attempt at _reassuring_. "I couldn't have my normal face if I was a robot, right? Tatsuki-chan says I can't be scary even if I wanted to; Kurosaki-kun is the one who can make all the scary faces. So I had to make myself look different!"

And then a finger raises, points, trembles in midair.

And touches his face, fluttering like a butterfly.

It brushes down one vibrant line against stark white, pauses to gather courage, and then the next. He does not bother to blink, but notes the odd coldness of her skin.

"I gave myself tearstreaks, like this," she says, and her voice is nothing more than the most hesitant of whispers. "Like you."

She looks up at him anxiously, watching with hopeful eyes, and he still does not know what she expects from him. She _should_ expect silence, as that is all she has gotten thus far and all she will get now.

And after a moment, she seems to realise this, eyes flickering with the crushed hope of camaraderie. There are no more words, but he can understand the slow heaviness of her footsteps well enough.

He almost breathes a sigh of relief when he hears her settle back onto her bed, and is grateful for the reprieve.

But the rustling of her sheets is punctuated by the softest of whispers:

"Ulquiorra, why do we both represent strength with tears?"


End file.
